Alone he withered
Up high he trembled
Forlorn he ambled
Through snow he trudged
High peaks he scaled
Declivitous valleys he descended
Brittle sands he underfoot crunched
Dehydrated and wearied
Frantic and unreeling
Dubious and without bearings
A well he crossed
Dry it was
Cursed luck
A Moor he saluted
In the arabesque tongue
Tutored he was by the Damascene sage
Now he trudged and was concerned not with the rest
The Moor pointed ahead
But the desert is all-round spread
Sighting at last, the domes on high
He marched on high
Wadr, the sole city, at last
The public wells he drained
Exhaustion enwrapped
The minaret he rounded
For the parfumerie headed
A rose attar he purchased
A regional specialty
Eastward he departed
Mountainside bounded
A lion he avoided
Nightly he crawled
A hare he hunted
On this he supped delighted
The snows thickened then thinned once more
No longer was he in the land of the Moors
For he was home at long last
Blown up high over the Carpathians
Onto red soil, burnt with ancient blood
He approached her and kneeled, as ought he to do
Laying by her that elegant blend
Lent to him by a lacrimating conoisseur
And like his saviour wept tears of joy
As he she embraced
Picking up the bottle too.
